


all at once, the air in my lungs

by commodorecliche



Category: Dark Matter - Michelle Paver
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Came Back Right, Canon Compliant, Coming Back, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Millfour, Post-Canon Fix-It, Recovery, Resurrection, Return from the grave, Reunions, Sharing a Bed, gratuitous cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: Thirteen years after Gus's death in Gruhuken, Jack's only other cherished friend, Isaak, finally passes away. Jack goes to the beach to release his ashes, but finds something else washed up on the shore.
Relationships: Gus Balfour/Jack Miller
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	all at once, the air in my lungs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RhetoricFemme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/gifts).



> merry chrysler, Christina!!!!!!!!!!!! i'm so happy you were my recipient. i really hope you like this. 
> 
> (btw it's so hard to write journal entries, tenses change so much TToTT) 
> 
> (also this fandom has a real lack of good Jack and Gus Making Out action, so I am here to PROVIDE)

**::**

**_20th, November._ **

_“I didn’t die_.” 

That’s the start of the last journal entry I wrote, some three-odd years ago. In truth, I’m not entirely sure why I have decided to write another now. I purchased this book ages ago, with the unrealistic thought that I might begin to chronicle my life again, that I might attempt to keep track of things post-Gruhuken. As if it were some atrocious way to heal. 

I haven’t healed though, have I? Perhaps that’s why I’m writing here again. I am far from Gruhuken, I have not healed, and Gus is still dead. 

It’s been three years since my last entry, three years since I last spoke of your death. When I last swore I would never write another journal again. I had burned those pages. Tossed them to the sea. To forget. To send my love. 

Three years since then. And now, almost to the thirteenth anniversary of Gus’s death (though thankfully not _on_ the day), Isaak has left me, as well. The pup was past his prime, I know this, of course. He lived a very long, and very good life after Gruhuken, full of treats and fattening foods and far too many naps for a hound of such athletic pedigree. But I let him be lazy, because it seemed the right thing to do. 

It was his time to go, and I have accepted this. But my acceptance of it does not seem to stave nor comfort the ache of his loss. An old, yappy dog, he certainly was, but he was also my friend. And my only lasting connection to you, Gus, to your memory. With Isaak gone, it’s as if the final piece of your light has simmered and extinguished. I suppose I couldn’t expect Isaak to live forever, though I had hoped it might be at least a couple years longer. 

I wonder if any of the other Gruhuken dogs are still living. 

I doubt that they are. 

It’s been thirteen years total now since Gruhuken. Long and arduous years in which I have attempted to grow and move on, years that I have spent living in tropics, attempting to forget the awful, chilling loss of Gruhuken. Thirteen years in which I have attempted to forget you, Gus. 

But I haven’t. Could not. Sometimes I think I do not truly want to forget. I have caught myself on more than one occasion clinging to whatever positive memories I am able to scrounge up. I caught myself, just the other day, pausing when I saw a lovely shirt in the marketplace that I thought you might have liked; precisely your style, a perfect fit for a youthful golden boy such as yourself. Perhaps you would have smiled if I had ever had the chance to gift it to you. Instead, I bought it for myself, not to wear, but to keep as a peculiar memento. 

I cling to you in the strangest of ways, hoping that despite the years and the miles between myself and where you rest, that you might stick around. 

But with Isaak gone, it rather feels like the last remnant of you has finally slipped away from me. 

Isaak was a good hound - frightfully smart and personality to boot. But even he has left me. 

He deserves a farewell, a proper one. The sort of farewell I was never able to give you, Gus.

I had a local veterinary clinic cremate him for me. Tomorrow, I will take him to the northeastern beach (which was always his favorite), and spread him into the sea. He’d redeveloped a love for the ocean during his tenure here in Jamaica, in ways I was never able to. 

Letting go of Isaak will be a heavy task, but it is one I know I must do. 

**::**

**_Later, evening.  
_ **

The most astounding, unbelievable thing has happened. I do not know how I can possibly put it into words, but I will try.

I had been right: releasing Isaak into the roaring waves of the Carribean sea was a difficult burden for me to bear. I don’t know how long I stood on that beach, far from the water, staring out at the waves and debating whether or not I could truly stand to upend the urn I had clutched to my breast. 

It took coaxing, and a lot of it, and my primary motivator was the thought that if I stood out here for too long, the early darkness of the November evening would soon begin to encroach upon me. Knowing that the winter dark was gradually approaching, I knew I must do what I had come to do. With a gulp and a long sigh, I walked to the waves, ritualistic as I always am whenever I come here. Hands shaking, I pried the urn from my chest and uncapped it. I crouched near the water and held the vessel out above the waves and swallowed the thick, lumpy feeling that had lodged itself within my throat. 

“Goodbye, old friend,” I whispered, wondering if Isaak could even hear me, wherever the pup might be. 

With that, I upended the urn, and watched as Isaak’s ashes were caught by the ocean breeze, drawing the powdered remnants of my only companion swiftly into the water. I bit my lip, if only to stave its quivering, and stared out across the sea. The sun had been steadily drifting towards the horizon as I had lingered on that beach, dillying and dallying before I had to force myself to say goodbye to my long-time friend. By then, it was threatening sunset upon me. Somewhere, far across the world, I know that Gruhuken is bathed in the pitch black of polar night; if I lingered here, that darkness would soon find me. It would turn this vibrant, blue sea into one of icy tar, threatening and voracious, just as it had been at Gruhuken. With a quick shake of my head, I forced myself to stand up and away from the waves. There was still daylight - I had plenty of time to escape the beach. 

I’d be back in a couple of days, to make my annual pilgrimage for the anniversary of Gus’s death. I needed to mentally prepare for that trip, as well. And so, with that thought, and the threat of returning to the sea not two days from now, I turned on my heel and traipsed up the sand towards the grassy dunes. 

I did not make it far, however. Not far at all. Because somewhere behind me, a violent splashing sound stopped me in my tracks. The sound gripped me like the hand of Fear Itself, clutching about my chest in painful familiarity. I froze in place, listening to a sound I had not heard in years, and yet knew so well. It was the sound of struggle in the water. It splashed and sloshed, the sound of a body, of _something_ moving about in the waves, drawing itself up out of the water. 

It wasn’t the exact sound I had heard in Gruhuken, where the frigid water had met the icy landscape. Something about the coldness of the water there had made everything sound more hollow, more echoing, more soul-rending. This was not the same as that, no, but it was close. 

All my senses went full tilt: alert, ready to flee should I need to, just as I had that final day in Gruhuken, when I had flung myself in Gus’s arms like a man on the brink of madness. The panic in my chest told me to run, because if I did not, the darkness would come for me, and the cold would find me. And yet, I could not flee. I was frozen in my tracks, listening to the horrid sound of a struggle at the water’s edge. 

I don’t know what possessed me to turn around, especially not with the retreating daylight, and yet I did. I turned around, and looked to the waves. 

Heart in my throat, stomach in my chest, I looked at the sea and searched for the source of the noises. 

There, some twenty-five to thirty feet down the beach, the figure of a man was crawling out of the water, dragging himself up along the sand. I peered at him, terror roiling in my chest, my head awash with curiosity and perturbation, but unable to look away. I forced myself to take a few steps closer to him. 

This did not look like the figure at Gruhuken. This did not look like that grotesque, blackened thing with its tilted head and its off-kilter shoulders. This looked like a man. Something still human. 

I dared another few steps closer. Fear still broiled in my belly, but I could not stop my approach, drawn to this struggling figure like a moth to a flame. 

And then… the unbelievable. 

I was close enough then; I could properly see him. He had… golden hair. He was drenched, yes, and struggling up the sand on his elbows, looking to be in pain, but this was a human man with golden hair and a sharp jaw. 

It was… 

No, it _couldn’t_ be. 

Despite all my logic and my poor attempts at rational thought, I sprinted towards the man in the surf, crying out the only name I could think to yell. It couldn’t be him, it just _couldn't_ be, and yet… 

And yet. 

“ _Gus!_ ” I screamed, and the man actually turned to look at me. 

Blue eyes. Blonde hair. That _perfect_ , youthful face. 

“J-Jack,” he whimpered as I fell to my knees in the sand beside him. He reached out to me, as I had once reached out to him, and I welcomed him with open arms. 

“ _Gus_ , my god ,” I blubbered as I wrapped my arms around him. His head fell weakly atop my breast, even as I hauled him further up the beach. He was drenched with wet and salt, his clothes tattered and positively soaked, and he was _frigid_ to the touch, the sort of cold one might think was reserved for a corpse. And yet he moved, and he spoke my name, and he clutched at me like only a living, breathing man could do. 

“Steady now… Oh, Gus,” I cooed to him and held him more tightly as his body violently shook in my grasp. 

I remembered then, with Gus is my arms now, the way he had held and cradled me that fateful day in Gruhuken, when he had come to my rescue. He had wrapped his arms around me, just this way, he had stroked my back and supported my terrified body, had talked to me with all the comfort he could muster. I tried, now, to mirror that. I tried to hold him and comfort him, even though all I wanted was to cling to him, to cry out his name, to ask him over and over and over again where he’s been all these years. I didn’t ask any of that. 

“A-agh, Jack,” He groaned into my chest, his hands clutching at the fabric of my linen shirt. 

“You’re okay, I’m here. I’m here. Come on, old boy, let’s get you up. Come on.” 

He was weak - so very weak - but with my help he stood. My arm around his waist, and his slung across my shoulder, I hobbled the two of us off the beach and back to my vehicle. I settled Gus with care into the passenger seat and drove the short few miles back to my home in the hills. 

For all my effort to keep my eyes focused on the road, I could not help but turn my gaze to him every few seconds, just to take him in, to assure myself that he was really there, sitting in my car, being driven to my home. Each time I looked and caught sight of him again, hope rose in my chest; hope and relief and adoration, all mixed into one aching, beautiful emotion I cannot think to describe. 

He did not speak much for the brief ride, his body stock-still and dripping in his seat, and his gaze fixated out the windscreen. But, as the night descended upon the land, and as we pulled up the road to my house, his voice, quiet as could be, flitted through the silent car. 

“Jack?” 

“Yes?” 

“Where… Where are we?” 

I licked my lips and glanced at him, pulling into the drive of my house and parking. Once the car was stopped, I turned my body to face him. He was still staring straight ahead through the windshield. Tentative, as if approaching a wild animal, I rested a warm hand atop his shoulder. His attention immediately turned to me, his face open and confused, looking for answers I wasn’t sure I could give him. 

I gave him the only truth I knew. 

“My home… in Jamaica.” 

He let out a low huff, a sardonic sound, just on the edge of disbelief, and sniffled, his face only more confused. 

“Jamaica…” 

I nodded and squeezed his shoulder. 

“Come on. Let’s get you inside, warmed up… We can talk more there.” 

“Right, of course.” 

His voice was low, and tired, and weak. And I could not wait to wrap my arms around him again. I rushed to his side of the car and opened his door, helping to haul him out of the seat and against my body. 

**::**

My home has a cozy bathroom with a small shower and tub. I ushered Gus towards it as soon as we were inside. He was still drenched with salt water, soaked with the ocean’s weight. In the low light of my house, I could finally take in the sight of him in a way I hadn’t been able to on the beach. He looked haggard and tired, his eyes and cheeks a bit sunken in, but he was just as gorgeous as I remembered him to be. What I wouldn’t have given to see that gleaming smile of his again - but he didn’t smile at all. Not that I could blame him. God only knows what he’s been through. But that a discussion for later. For now, I had to make him comfortable. 

His clothes were rags - ripped up and sagging on him with the weight of the damp. I left him alone in the bathroom for a moment - though it was difficult to let him out of my sight, even just for a few seconds - and gathered some of my own clothes for him to change into. The shirt I had bought the other day, the one that had reminded me of him, stared at me from my closet. With a hesitant hand, I grabbed it, and a pair of comfortable sleeping pants, and hurried back to the bathroom. 

When I returned, Gus had slowly managed to peel away some of his clothing. I popped into the bathroom as he’d struggled to pull his wet thermal shirt over his head. I stopped short at the sight of his stomach and chest half-exposed, and turned away, apologies already on my lips as I did so. 

“S’okay, old chap,” He murmured with a groan of discomfort. I wondered how much pain he might be in and wished I had something to give him for it, “Actually, could you- Could you help me? It just… hurts.” 

“Oh. Right. Yes.” I quickly set the fresh clothing down on the sink and approached him, making sure to avert my eyes from any of his exposed skin. I wanted to look - not for any sordid reasons, but if only to see the state of him… To see if his fretted appearance extended to his flesh and bones. 

Gus lifted his arms gingerly, and I tugged the sopping material off of him. Despite my best efforts not to look, I couldn’t help but steal a glimpse at him. I couldn’t recall ever seeing him without his shirt before, but I am sure that he had not previously been this thin. Some ribs showed, their shadows gaunt and harsh beneath his pale skin. It was strange, I must admit, and awful, to see him like that - I had grown accustomed to Gus, our fearless leader. Gus, the strongest of the bunch. Gus, the daring. Gus, the mighty. Gus, the adventurer. But here before me… he was weak. And tired. _Vulnerable_. And all I wanted to do was comfort him. 

I didn’t though. Not then. Instead, I darted my gaze away swiftly and turned my attention to the tub, desperate to distract myself. 

“The uh, those knobs will turn the water on,” I told him as I flicked each one on, “and that lever there will turn on the shower, if you want it… If not, there’s a drain stop there for a bath.” 

I tried, very, very hard, to keep the waver out of my voice. Having him here was far too overwhelming. I still had not fully accepted that he was really even here, and not just some figment of my desperate imagination, come to comfort me during a time of unspeakable loneliness. But no, he was here, seemingly at least, and he was, more or less, okay… It was all a bit too much, and the tightness of my voice was giving me away. 

As I pointed things out around the tub - soap, shampoo, clean wash towels - Gus’s tender hand gripped my shoulder and tugged. He turned me around to face him and, without a word, pulled me into a gentle embrace. My arms hesitated for a moment, hovering and unsure of what to do, but as his own arms wound around my neck, I found mine wrapping around his middle and clutching him close to me. One hand sprawled flat between his shoulder blades, as the other wound around to clutch at his too-prominent ribs. Gus’s bare skin was cold and clammy against my hands, but I didn’t care. One could hardly blame him anyway: he’d risen from the dead tonight. His skin would warm with the heat of the bath, and he would feel alive once again. 

I clung to Gus, and buried my face into his neck. I screwed my eyes shut as one of his hands came to rest on the back of my head, stroking the unruly hair there. 

My face felt wet - was I crying? I must have been. 

“Gus,” I whimpered into his throat, my voice far more raw than I wished it would be. 

“Jack,” He whispered back to me. 

There was so much more to say. There still is. But for that moment, I just wanted to be held by him. I just wanted to hold him. And Gus had no complaints on the matter. 

When we finally disentangled, I swiped at my eyes, frantic to erase any signs of the emotions that had overwhelmed me. But I know Gus saw the tears. He didn’t look upset or bothered by my outburst, though; quite the contrary, he looked relieved. But I still did not miss the faint look of confusion on his face. 

I wondered then if he knew how long he had been gone… I did not feel prepared to tell him if he didn’t. 

Instead, I patted his shoulder, and pointed out the fresh clothes I had brought him, and a towel, and left him to clean up, promising to make us some tea. 

I’m writing at my desk now, listening to the persistent drone of the shower like a summer storm. It’s a soothing noise, far better than the silence I had expected to come home to today. The kettle should be boiling any moment now. I want the tea warm when Gus emerges from the shower.

Gus is alive. He is here, in my house. He is cleaning up right now in my bathroom. After thirteen years, he has come back to me. I can hardly believe it. I do not know how, nor do I know why, but I do not wish to question it. If I never, ever learned those hows or whys, if I never figured out how he miraculously washed up upon the beach, I could still be happy so long as he remained. 

There’s a lot we need to talk about, but he’s here, and that’s all that matters. 

I hope he will stay. 

**::**

**_Later._ **

We didn’t talk much once Gus finally emerged from the bathroom. But he looked a million times better for having had a shower. His skin was more flush, more lively, and his eyes had perked a bit, but I could see the exhaustion that still lingered in them. His hair dripped wet, but it was a different sort of wet - combed out and sorted, not tousled from the violence of the ocean’s waves. Dripping with clean water, shampooed to his comfort, not doused in salt and seaweed. He was dressed, perfectly, in the clothes I had offered him. The shirt I had bought because I thought he might like it looked a wonder on him, and he seemed to fit in it like his own skin. He looked… wonderful. He looked like himself. And I could not stop myself from staring at him as he made his way over to my small sofa. 

The kettle whistled from the kitchen just as Gus sat down, and I darted up and hurried to pour us some tea. Once ready, I thrust the cup at him and settled down on the cushion beside him. I might have sat too close to him than necessary, but he did not seem to mind; he didn’t mention it, nor did he move away from me. I did not touch him, though, despite everything inside me screaming to do so, just to make sure he was still real. Clutching my hand into a tight fist, I refrained.

Gus drank his tea in full, thirsty gulps, and I asked, uneasily, if he was hungry. He nodded, and I fetched what few things I had on hand and watched, rapt, as he ate every morsel I offered him. Something panged me, deep in my chest. I thought of when he had come to my rescue, all those years ago, thought of the way I stumbled through the icy shallows to get to him. I thought of the way he had cradled and comforted me, the way he had attempted, futilely, to protect my frostbitten feet. 

I thought of the way he had fallen overboard, how I had scrambled for him, unable to find him in a sea of blackness. 

I couldn’t stop myself then: I reached a hand out and rested it on his knee. Just to feel that he was there. 

He looked down at it, but did not remove it. Did not deny my touch. I squeezed his knee, just as a reminder that his body was real, and solid, and there. The flesh was firm beneath my grip. Gus sighed softly and patted my hand, looking up at me with confusion. He looked so lost, and I, too, was lost for words. 

What do you say in moments like this? What can one possibly say when your dearest friend has seemingly risen like Lazarus from the grave? 

Gus glanced down to the floor, his eyes settling on my prosthetic. 

“Frostbite?” He asked, seeming to remember the way the cold had taken me that fateful day. 

I nodded to him. 

“Yes. They salvaged the other foot though,” I told him and stuck it out, wiggling my toes for him to see. 

That earned a small smile from him, and something inside me flared hot and wild. 

“Gus…” 

“I don’t remember anything,” He said suddenly. “I… I remember falling overboard. And trying to find your hand,” He shakes his head, “And then just black. Cold blackness.” 

I said nothing, because what could one possibly say to that. It’s not as if I had any answers for him. I felt, somehow, as though I should apologize to him. _I’m sorry you came to get me. I’m sorry I let you be dragged away. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry for all the water in your lungs, because it should have been me._

But I didn’t say of that, none of it felt good enough. None of it felt like it would do either of us any favors. So i stayed silent, and let him speak. 

“It was so dark… For so long. But now I’m _here_ ,” Even he hardly seems to believe it, “How am I here, Jack?” 

I shook my head and tightened my lips into a thin line. I didn’t have an answer. I still don’t. 

“I’m terrified to ask, Jack, but what year is it? Things seem… different. And you,” He paused, lifting his gaze to my face and taking me in. I wonder what he saw there - the crows feet, perhaps? Or the lines around my mouth? I have not aged horribly, certainly not, but I am not the same young man I was thirteen years ago. (Gus, on the contrary, appears to not have aged a day, save for his emaciation). 

I squeezed his knee again and rubbed it reassuringly. How do you tell someone they’ve been dead for thirteen years? 

“Gus,” I started, trying my best to be calm, despite the fear raging within me, “Gruhuken was years ago…” 

He continued to stare at me, those blue eyes so large, so pleading, so lost. 

“You were dead… You've been dead for _years_.” 

I didn’t have the heart to tell him exactly how many years it had been. 

Gus yanked his gaze away from mine, but he did not refute my statements, did not express any disbelief. Instead, he shuddered an uneasy breath and tilted forward so he could bury his face in his hands. I watched, unable to look away, as his shoulders trembled and I listened as his breath stuttered. Unthinking, I scooted closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, holding him flush against me. 

“It’s alright,” I cooed, trying my best to soothe, “It’s alright. I’m here, old boy. You’re okay. We can… we can figure this out.” 

Gus nodded into his hands and then turned, rather suddenly, to engulf me in a desperate hug. I clung to him then, just as I had clung to him in the bathroom, half-afraid that if my grip should falter, I might lose him once again. He shook in my arms, and I soothed it away as best I could, a tender hand caressing the length of his spine until his body calmed. 

“I missed you,” I whimpered before I could think to stop myself. It was the truth though. When I was on my own in Gruhuken, I longed for nothing more than his companionship. And when he came to my rescue, the relief I had felt was indescribable. But it was short-lived. As soon as he was with me, he was yanked away again. And I have been without him for thirteen years. 

Gus huffed into my shoulder and pulled away slightly, and I knew I had said the wrong thing. But rather than extricate himself from me, he instead drew me forward to press our foreheads together. His eyes stayed closed, his breath still unsteady, but his hand on the back of my neck was a reassuring warmth. 

“I missed you so much,” I said again, unable to stop the break in my voice.

“I’m here, old friend,” He whispered into the minuscule space between us. 

Clenching my eyes shut, I allowed myself this embrace. Clinging to Gus for as long as he would have me there. But eventually, we had to part. 

It was late. 

Gus was exhausted (as was I, even though I would not admit it to him). 

I showed him my bed, though he insisted he should take the sofa or a cot. I declined, vehemently, and insisted he take the bed. He needed a good night’s rest, I told him, and he could not seem to argue that point. I helped him settle in and told him I’d just be in the living room if he needed me. His eyes were already closed as I stepped away from the bed, and by the time I made it to the door of the bedroom, his breathing had shifted to a comfortable pattern. 

It is strange to sit here now. To sit in my living room, and to know that, for once in thirteen years, Gus is near me again. He is deep in sleep, just one door between us. It is a comfort to think of his proximity, but even this minuscule space between us now seems difficult. He is one room over, and that should be comfort enough. Gus, alive, mostly well, in my home and resting. And yet I still want to open my bedroom door and crawl to the bedside, just to watch him sleep, just to remind myself that he is still there. 

He will be there when I wake up, I tell myself as I settle onto the couch. He will be there, he will tell me good morning, and we will talk and everything will be fine. He is near enough to me now. 

And yet, I want more. 

I love you, Gus. Dear god, how ferociously I have missed you. 

**::**

**_Later_ ** **.**

Gus cries out in his sleep. I can hear him through the wall and I am unable to sleep for it. Fearful cries, pained whimpers. I don’t even have to wonder what he is dreaming about. 

I ache to comfort him, but I cannot bring myself to open the bedroom door. 

**::**

**_21st, November. Morning._ **

It is strange, I thought as I woke this morning, to not hear the click-clack of Isaak’s nails across the floor. So quiet to not hear him pacing about, wanting to go outside. And for a brief moment, as I woke, I felt a heavy weight of sadness settle over me in his absence. 

The sadness, however, was quickly replaced by the thought of Gus still asleep in my bedroom. 

Gus slept late this morning, something that I feel was fully deserved. I mulled about as quietly as I could, preparing a small breakfast of eggs, toast, and only the strongest of Jamaican coffee. 

There was a moment, when I heard the bedroom door creak open, and watched as Gus, still addled with sleep and a little unsteady, stumbled into the kitchen, a half grin on his face at the sight of me, that I thought: _Everything is going to be okay_. 

It was a good thought. One I believe could even be true. 

**::**

**_Later._ **

Gus and I talked more today about Gruhuken. He told me everything he remembered, right up until the moment he was pulled under. I suppose I hadn’t expected he would remember much. He’s been ‘dead’ for thirteen years; what exactly is there for him to remember? What could there be? 

There could be Gruhuken… There could be the rage I had felt from that spirit when I was there. I had hoped, so very intensely, all these years that wherever Gus was, it was somewhere peaceful. Somewhere far away from Gruhuken, far away from those awful, icy waters. But I could never know for sure. 

I suppose it should be a comfort that Gus doesn’t remember anything. I would rather that than the alternative. 

But sometimes, I look at him and I can see that he is trying. He is trying, desperately, to remember. To draw up some images, some memories of whatever happened after he went into the water, to conjure some clarity about wherever he has been for the last thirteen years. 

I hope he doesn’t; I think that would be more peaceful. 

For what it’s worth though, Gus seems thrilled to be around me again. He smiles now when he sees me, a great beaming grin that takes me back to the promising days before we arrived in Gruhuken. Back when we were hopeful and full of excitement for everything that alien land had to offer us. We were naive then, sure. But we were happy. 

We are not naive now. I don’t think we ever could be again. But Gus still smiles. 

He was dead for thirteen years, and now he smiles at me from his perch on the couch. Alive, drinking tea I have made for him, coming back into himself, perhaps even shedding himself of all the awful things that have happened. 

I cannot help but smile with him. What else are you supposed to do when a dear friend has miraculously returned to you? 

I want to hug him again. 

I want to tell him how much he means to me. How I have never felt for anyone the way I feel for him. 

I probably shouldn’t. I am sure I shouldn’t. 

**::**

**_Later._ **

It is past 3 AM now and all I can hear are Gus’s desperate cries from the bedroom. I don’t know the details of what he is dreaming about, but I can fully imagine the terror of whatever it is. 

Should I comfort him? 

Lord knows I ache to. 

**::**

**_22nd, November. Afternoon_ ** **.**

Today is the would-be anniversary of Gus’s death. The official marker of thirteen years of his absence. 

Today is the day I would have once again made my journey down to the water to mourn him. 

Today, though, I am having lunch with him; a small batch of stew I’ve made with the hopes that it might warm him more. Gus is still weak and tired - understandable for someone who’s been dead for more than a decade - but he seems to be recovering well. His face looks a little fuller. 

He hasn’t talked about his dreams, though I cannot say I blame him. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t remember them. I hope that’s the case. 

It crosses my mind, as Gus and I sit across from each other eating the stew, that I should send word to Algie, or to Gus’s parents. How thrilled they will be, how utterly _elated_ they will be for the news. But… I don’t want to just yet. I want to sit here at my kitchen table, staring at Gus, alive and well, watching him eat the stew I’ve made. I want to sit here, in our own private world, and watch him, and keep him for myself. Just for a little longer. Perhaps that is selfish of me, but I cannot help it.

Not to mention, I do not know how on earth to begin explaining this miracle to anyone. Who would believe the things I have to say? 

I will send word to Algie eventually, of course. I will send word to Gus’s parents. But for now… I will let the two of us exist in the safety of my home. Just for a while longer. 

After lunch, I began to clear the table, and Gus rose swiftly to help me. He followed me to the sink, pressed into my side as he deposited his bowl into the water. I expected him to move away once he has relinquished all his tableware, but he didn’t. Instead, he stayed there, pressed shoulder to shoulder with me, his left arm flush against my right. He turned his head towards me, and I felt his gaze on me, even without meeting it. I bit my lip and began to scrub at the bowls with a rag. 

“You were so brave, Jack. Do you know that?” He whispered finally into the silence. “What you did, for the expedition. Staying there on your own? I don’t know that… I would have had it in me to do the same.” 

“You came back for me,” I replied, not looking up from the sink. I still do not know why he returned with Algie that day. Perhaps it was for me. Or perhaps, most likely, it was for the expedition, to try and salvage whatever I had failed to keep afloat. 

“Of course I did. I couldn’t leave you there.” 

My breath hitched in my throat, and I could not respond. 

“I wish so much we hadn’t left."

I shrugged, trying to brush it off, but his words were far more soothing than I wanted to admit.

"You were sick; you had to go."

"We shouldn't have left you behind. That’s why I came back as soon I could. I couldn’t bear to… imagine you there alone for any longer.” 

Gus hung his head and my scrubbing motions halted in the warm sink water. 

“You know,” He continued, turning his gaze away from me again, “I don’t remember anything after that day, after I went overboard. But… I still remember your face the moment you saw me coming towards you on the beach. It was dark out, but I could still see your face.” 

I dared then, and only then, to glance to my right and look at Gus. His expression was fraught and worried, a touch of pain in all the creases of his forehead. He stared ahead, at nothing, as if locked in a memory he didn’t want to remember. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, Jack,” He told me. “You were… so _afraid_. And so relieved. You came crashing into me and clung to me like I was your only lifeline. And in that moment, I kicked myself. Over and _over_ again for _ever_ thinking I could have left you there. I hated myself then, to think I had left you there to... to rot on your own.” 

He yanked his head towards me again, eyes frantic as they searched to meet mine. 

“Can you ever forgive me?” He pleaded, as if there were anything to forgive, “The expedition was never worth something happening to you. It was _never_ worth it, and yet I let you stay…” 

He sounded genuinely upset, pained, downtrodden with a guilty conscience as if he ever had anything to apologize for. I angled my body towards him, abandoning the dishes in the sink, and placed my hands on both his shoulders. I squeezed him then, reassuring, attempting once again to comfort. I could not stand this look of hurt upon his face - a face like his deserved to smile. To do nothing but smile, for the rest of his days. 

“No. The expedition was never worth losing _you_ , Gus,” I insisted, fingers massaging his shoulders, “You came back for me and I lost you. But…” I paused as I attempted to collect myself. My throat was growing taut, my words tighter and more difficult to speak with every syllable, “But you’re here now. I don’t know _how_ , but you are and…”

I paused; smiled. It was an ugly thing, a poor attempt to mask the upset broiling within me. The pain of Gus’s loss, the years and years I spent waking up only to remember yet again, for the thousandth time, that he was gone forever. I do not know why or how he has returned to me, but he is here now. And I do not want him to leave. 

My fingers tensed and relaxed on his shoulders and then slid down to grip his biceps. 

“Jack, I-” 

I did not let him finish. Instead, I hung my head and forced out my plea before I could think to stop myself. 

“Will you stay?” 

“What?” 

“With me. Here,” I paused, searched for the words, “I lost you once already… I don’t want you to go again. Will you stay with me?” 

Gus did not answer me at first, and dread seeped into my gut like hot coal. I had said the wrong thing. I had begged for too much. The mere idea of it was insane. Of course, I knew it was. Two men living together indefinitely in a small house in Jamaica? Ludicrous. 

But that is what I wanted. I knew that then, I know it now. 

Gus swallowed and sighed, and I knew, he was going to tell me that he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly stay here with me forever. When he finally spoke, I braced myself, but could not let go of his arms. 

“Jack, I can’t remember a single thing after I… I-” He stopped short - he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say the word _died_ . “You say I’ve been gone for years… And that time is just a black and empty spot in my memory. But… I will remember your face that day for the rest of my life. I don’t know anything about _any_ of what happened in that place, or what happened to _you_ , or what happened to me. But I know that… I missed you. I know that I wanted to find your hand so desperately in that water.”

He paused. A breath. 

“It was all I wanted - to find you. Of course, I’ll stay.” 

Relief flooded me. Overwhelming. I choked it out with a broken hitch of breath. I could not think, and so, unthinking, I drew Gus to me in a fearsome hug. 

He returned it with warmth and tightness, burying his face in my neck. He held me as tightly as he had the day he came for me at Gruhuken. 

It seemed almost unfair, I remember thinking. After all, he was the one who had returned from the grave. I should have been the one, in that moment, comforting him., and yet I could not help but fall into him. To soak up every ounce of tenderness he would give me. 

Gus will stay. He said he would.

**::**

**_26, November. Evening._ **

Gus is doing better. His body has recovered, more meat on him now that he’s been properly eating for a few days. His skin is looking better and brighter - recovered from the damage of the salt. His eyes are bright. His smile brighter still. 

He went for a walk this morning through the gardens around my home. He told me after that he thinks he will come to love Jamaica. 

He is going to stay. I cannot yet fully believe it. 

Gus still does not sleep well, though I can hardly fault him for it. I cannot stand the sound of it though. Each night, I lie awake on my sofa, listening to the soft, desperate whimpers emanating from my bedroom, and I know he is in pain. Whether he remembers or not, I am not sure. Either way, he doesn’t seem willing to speak to me about it. 

Tonight it is worse than it has ever been. Each cry he makes is gut-wrenching, twisting up something deep inside me. It is something urgent: a frantic need to protect him, to comfort him, to keep him well and safe in all the ways I could not back in Gruhuken. I want to spare him this pain, I do not want him to return to that place each night as he sleeps. I have only just got him back, I cannot let that place continue to try and claim him. 

It is late now - past 2 AM, I am sure. I can no longer stand his cries. I have to go to him. 

**::**

Resolve sat heavy in my chest, and I rose from the couch and tightened my sleeping robe around my chest. On quiet, soft feet, I padded over to the door of my bedroom. Behind it, the room was quiet, save for Gus’s occasional upset. Swallowing the tightness in my throat, I rapped my knuckles against the door, but no response came. My hand uneasy above the door handle, I found my courage and cracked it open and poked my head inside. 

“Gus,” I whispered into the room, but I received no response save for the occasional worried whimper that fell from Gus’s lips. 

Slipping into the room, I hovered near the door for a moment, simply watching Gus’s figure resting in my bed. If he were not so upset in this moment, I might have called him lovely. Because it _was_ a pleasant sight, to see him wrapped up delicately in my sheets, his yellow hair sprawled and messy atop my pillow. 

I wondered, briefly, if he could smell the lingering scent of my hair on that pillow as he fell asleep. I wondered, too, if perhaps he liked it. 

No. 

That thought wouldn’t do. I was here for Gus. My own feelings needed to be set aside, no matter how difficult it might be to do so. 

Nodding to myself, I strode over to my bedside and stared down at Gus’s fraught figure. He brow was furrowed with worry, face aglow with sweat, reflected only by the moonlight filtering in through the slat blinds. It was a warm night, but not warm enough for sweat like that. No, this was from his anguish, and I hated to see it stained upon his brow. He groaned then, and writhed a little beneath the blanket. His voice was so taut, so full of something I could only recognize as Gruhuken’s lasting effects. 

I could not stand it. 

I knelt then at the bedside and rested my hand on his shoulder. I gave him a soft squeeze and a gentle shake, trying to rouse him as kindly as I could. But Gus did not react to it. Instead, he writhed again, and cried out with such despair that I felt my own eyes begin to sting. I shook him harder. 

“Gus,” I whispered into the darkness, “Gus, come now, lad, wake up.” 

With another firm shake, I saw Gus’s eyes fly open. He awoke with a startled cry, and jumped at the sight of me. Immediately, I withdrew my hand, holding both up in front of me to show him I meant no harm. 

“It’s just me, Gus. It’s Jack.” 

He panted for a moment, his eyes adjusting, before his gaze softened on me. 

“Oh… Jack. I’m… I’m sorry, I-” 

“You were dreaming… I uh, I heard you calling out. I was worried.” 

Weary, he raised a hand to his face and rubbed at his tired eyes. 

“I seem to be dreaming quite a lot lately,” He admitted, not looking at me. 

“Are you alright?” 

I dared then to rest my hand atop his forearm. He stared at it for a moment, not yet responding to my question, then wrenched his gaze up to my eyes. He looked wild for a moment, like a feral, frightened stag, but he calmed quickly. Relaxed into my touch. He nodded and sighed a soft, low breath. 

“Yes, thank you, old boy.” 

He did not move to extricate his arm from beneath my hand. I gave him another squeeze, my fingers aching to caress. He was so warm beneath my palm; warmth has been the only thing I've ever sought since I escaped Gruhuken all those years ago.

“Right, well, then I’ll just…” I forced myself to pull my hand away. I stood then, and hesitated to leave. Gus watched my ever motion. Finally, I had to turn away from him, and retreat to the living room once again. 

I was almost to the door, my hand reaching out to the knob, when Gus’s voice called me back. 

“Jack?” He whispered, as if afraid to even say my name. 

I paused and turned back to look at him. He was staring at me, focused and intent, but there was confusion on his face, and a look of something else I could not name. 

“Yeah?” 

“Would you… Could you stay? With me?” 

His voice - it sounded _afraid_. As though he should not be asking this of me. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been. 

But I didn’t care. I agreed before I could think not to. 

“Of course.” 

I returned then to the bedside and settled myself down to the floor, propping my arms and head atop the mattress. Gus looked perturbed and shook his head, scooting back across the bed to the opposite side, leaving an open space big enough for me. 

It was unspoken, wordless, but the request was there. I stared at him, and he stared at me, and neither of us could find the courage to ask the question we needed to ask. 

Instead of speaking, I simply nodded, and removed my robe so I was down to just my pyjamas. Crawling up into the bed, I slipped beneath the covers with all the hesitancy of child trying desperately not to rouse their sleeping parent. I faced Gus, but clung to the edge of the bed, maintaining the few inches of space between us. It seemed the proper thing to do. 

There are things men don’t do - sharing a bed seemed like one of them. 

Gus nodded his thanks, and rolled over so his back was towards me. 

This was okay. I could live with this. 

Before I knew it, Gus was asleep again. But this time, it was peaceful and sound. I stayed up through the night, just listening for his cries, ready to comfort him should he need it. But he slept through till morning, not a single inkling of upset in his rest. I smiled then, exhausted as the sun rose, patted his shoulder and rose from the bed. 

I had breakfast to make. 

**::**

**_29th, November. Evening._ **

This has become a ritual, I believe. 

Each night, Gus will retire to bed before me as I set up shop on the couch. He makes a fuss about how he shouldn’t be taking my bed from me; I insist to him that it is fine and he needs it more than I do. 

Hours later, I will hear his frantic, slumberous cries from the bedroom, and I will rise from the couch and creep to his bedside. He wakes to me the same way each time - confusion, recognition, and then relief - before he scoots back and wordlessly allows me space to join him. 

Gus no longer asks if I will stay with him through the night; he assumes each time now that I will. 

He is right to assume it. I will come to him every single time, ready to ease whatever pain befalls him. I owe him that much. I need to give him that much. I will stay by his side for as long as he wants me there. 

**::**

Tonight, his cries were the worst I have heard them since he first arrived here. Frantic sobs and groans full of pain and desperation. His suffering was immense, and I could stand it no longer. After the first few moments of it, I was up off the couch and rushing into the bedroom. There was no preamble of quiet footsteps, or gentle awakenings. I rushed into the room and dropped to his bedside on my knees, and shook him, desperate to rouse him from his terror. 

I could not leave him to drown in it. 

When I shook him, Gus awoke with a shout and a jolt, flinging himself up to me, my name on his lips. He swung his arms around my neck and clutched at me, as one might clutch a life-ring. And perhaps that is what I was - the man to keep him afloat, even if I hadn't been able to before.

His breath was haggard and uneven, urgent gasps and huffs against the skin of my throat. I wound my arms around his middle and dragged a soothing hand up and down along the length of his spine. He no longer felt of skin and bones in my embrace - he was full again, solid, the Gus that I remembered. And yet this pain was still so harsh and new - so out of place on his perfect, happy face. 

I _detest_ it. 

“Shh,” I cooed into his ear, my hand still rubbing his back as his shaking began to subside, “You’re alright.” 

Gus nodded against my throat, but I knew he was still upset. He pulled away from me - reluctant to separate us, if my senses were correct - and cocked his head down towards the bed. A silent invitation. 

“Please,” He whimpered, as though he were afraid I might not agree this time to stay. 

I would agree _every_ time, Gus. I would stay as long as you would have me. Surely, you must know that by now. 

I didn’t say any of that; how does one find the right words for those sorts of things? Instead, I nodded, silent, and watched as Gus once again made space for me on the mattress. When I slid in under the covers, I did not cling to the edge of the bed as I had all the other times. This time, I allowed myself to take up space, to edge past the boundary that had existed, unspoken, between us these last few nights. 

Gus did not protest. He did not move away. 

Instead, he rolled onto his side, as he always did, with his back facing me. I could still see the desperate tremble in his shoulders and I wanted, so _horribly_ , to soothe it away. To somehow make every cell in his body forget whatever pain he had experienced the moment I lost my grip on him that day. But I can’t do that, and I know I can’t. I cannot take it back, I cannot make it disappear. Gus knew that too. But it didn’t stop him from wanting it. 

A moment of silence hung between us, and I watched as his back rose with a large, calming breath. He scooted back then, moving closer to me just a fraction of an inch. 

“Jack?” He muttered to the opposite wall. 

The question was there, but not spoken. Terror built within my gut, but I ignored it as best I could. I scooted forward, and Gus eased back again, until our bodies finally made contact; his back, my front. It was a ghost of a touch, the barest scrape of his back against my fingers, our legs and toes just brushing each other like forgotten whispers. But it was enough. 

It was enough. Maybe. 

_Oh, Gus._

Trembling, I reached my hand forward and placed my palm flat against his spine. Through the thin fabric of his shirt (one of my old ones; I cannot deny the way I so vehemently love the way my clothing looks on him) his muscles tensed beneath my touch, only to relax again in the next instant. Gus sighed then, soft, _relieved_ , and I found myself releasing the turbulent breath I had unwittingly been holding inside my chest. 

My hand dragged along the length of spine, before coming to rest softly atop his hip. Gus did not move away. Instead, he softened beneath my hand and rolled a little more fully to me, so his back could touch my chest if it wanted to. I’m almost sure it did want to. 

His hair, his golden, perfect hair, was so close now I could smell it. The hints of that tropical shampoo that I’d gotten from the local merchants, plus a scent that I could only imagine was purely _Gus_ : it filled me with heat and something else that I have yet to find a name for. I could have buried my face into his locks, breathed him in, had I wanted to. 

I most certainly wanted to. 

He scooted back even further. Moved ever closer to me. Eliminated the modicum of space between us. But the silence still hung like a curtain between us; I could not bear its weight upon me. 

“I had nightmares, too, you know,” I whispered to him, as though it might be some sort of comfort to him, “I had them all the time when you were…” I could not bring myself to say the word ‘ _dead_ ’, “still gone.” 

I paused and waited to see if he might respond. He didn’t, but he inched a hair closer to me still. 

“I dreamt of that day in Gruhuken, over and over again, for thirteen years. Trying to... piece it out. Figure it out, figure out how to make it better. But the sheer _terror_ of it… That _thing_ ,” my breath hitched, the word painful to say, “dragging you down, tearing you away from me. I could hardly _stand_ the thought of it. I dreamt often that perhaps I could change it, that I could save you, but I never could. Just an endless loop of you slipping away from me. I have woken up in tears so many times now that I have lost count. Sometimes, even though you’re here now, I _still_ dream of that day in vivid detail and I believe when I wake that none of this is real. I believe sometimes that you haven’t actually come back, that you aren’t here…” 

“I-” Gus started, but I couldn’t let him speak just yet. I needed these words to come out. 

“But other times,” I started again, my voice lighter now, “Other times, I would have these dreams where you were here, with me. And you would… _talk_ to me as though you weren’t gone. Like you were right here. In this bed next to me, like you are now. Telling me that it was all okay.” 

“Jack…” He whispered again, uneasy, but pleading. 

“And you would beg me to let it go. To not blame myself. Insisting that things could be… _good_ again, if I could just let it go. That maybe someday I’d be able to forget. Or forgive myself. But I couldn’t… Gus, I couldn’t. I still can’t.”

“...Jack,” He breathed, “You _have_ to forgive yourself. There’s nothing you could have done.” 

My throat tightened like a vice, and it cut off the sob that has threatened to leave my mouth. My eyes clenched shut and I pressed my forehead into the back of Gus’s neck. 

“I could have held on.” 

“No,” Gus insisted, “You couldn’t have.” 

Gus sighed then - a quiet sound, but pained, as though it were a struggle to leave his chest. 

“I don’t know why I’ve come back. I just... I don't have an explanation for it, Jack. I just don’t know. I don’t know where I’ve been all this time. I don’t even fully know what it is I’m dreaming about each night… But the pain of it is so real. Every clear memory of it seems to fade upon waking, but the _feelings_ remain. Fear. Upset. Desperation. I cannot forget those things.” 

Guilt rose in my chest; this is the fate I left him with all those years ago. This is what I allowed to happen to him. Have I doomed him now, thirteen years after his death, to a life of painful memory?

“But,” Gus continued, “you know what else I remember each morning when I wake? I remember that you reached for me. And in every dream I find myself _missing you_. I feel your absence in my sleep like a dagger in my gut, and I want so badly to find that hand of yours that was reaching out to me.” 

“You don’t have to miss me,” I assured him and squeezed his hip, the bone sharp beneath my palm. I insist to him as though I am trying to convince us both, “I’m here.” 

“And I’m here, too. Somehow, I am. Oh, Jack... Can you forgive me?” 

“What?” I whispered, my breath full of disbelief as it ghosts across his nape. I hadn't understood this when he'd asked me at the kitchen sink the other day, and I could not understand it as he asked it of me now. What on earth could he _ever_ have done that I would need to forgive? He _died_ for me. I should apologize to him until the day my heart goes rotten.

“Forgive me for leaving you to fend for yourself,” He pleaded.

I paused. Shook my head, frantic, refuting the request immediately. I bit the bullet and buried my face into his nape, inhaling the warm, comforting scent of him. 

“There’s nothing to forgive, Gus.” 

A beat passed between us. Gus said nothing, though I knew he had heard me. 

“Can _you_ forgive _me?_ ” I mumbled against his skin. My lips brushed his skin with every word I spoke. I ached to press them firm against him, but I could not find the courage, not then, not with that awful vulnerability hovering around me like a plague. “I got you killed. _I’m_ the one that left _you_ there. I should beg your forgiveness until the day I die.” 

Gus huffed then, a hard hard, determined breath. He shook his head in vehement denial, and, with one swift motion, pressed his body back further so that his back was full and flush against my chest. Before I could register what he’d done, his right hand grabbed my arm and removed it from its tentative spot on his waist, instead yanking it forward to wind around his chest. 

To hold him. 

He clutched at my hand, pressed it flat and firm against his breastbone, unwilling to let me go. I would not have asked him to, at any rate. But his fingers, as sure as they were in their grip, still twitched against mine, and he massaged my knuckles with apprehension. 

“I think,” Gus started, his voice just barely above a whisper, “I think somehow, Jack, you brought me back.” 

I shook my head, forehead still pressed into the soft tendrils of hair at Gus’s nape, but Gus persisted. He ignored my silent protest, unwilling to hear any refutations I could pretend to offer. 

“I believe you did,” He told me, “How… or why… those are things I simply don’t know. But regardless, I returned to you, and you alone.” 

I thought then of Gus’s parents. Of Algie. Even of Hugo, although he had not been with us at Gruhuken. 

Gus could have gone to any one of them - they have certainly grieved him with the same ferocity that I had. 

But he didn’t go to them. He came to _me_. He washed up on _my_ beach. On _my_ island. Just a day after Isaak had passed. He came as though I had called for him, more than I ever had before. 

“There is _nothing_ for me to forgive of you, Jack. But you _must_ forgive _yourself_. You cannot wallow in your desire for self-flagellation, just as I cannot wallow in mine. We’re here now, aren’t we? I came back for you because…” 

Gus stopped then, sharp and abrupt, as if he had caught himself and stopped himself from saying something he had not been meant to say. I clenched my eyes shut even harder, because I feared that if I opened them, the tears would pour from me like water through a broken dam. 

“Because?” I whimpered, probing, almost afraid of what his answer might have been. 

“Because,” he sighed, and resigned himself to speak whatever truth was lingering on his lips, “I care for you. And I missed you.” 

Gus squeezed my hand then; I could feel the nervous energy channel through him. His twitching fingers, his uneasy, but insistent grasp on me. Suddenly, filled with bravery I didn’t know I had, I turned my palm over, and captured his fingers in my own grip. I soothed them, attempted to alleviate whatever anxiety had suddenly taken up residence within him. 

I wanted to hold myself back from the truth, I truly did. But with my face pressed into the back of Gus’s neck - both hidden, and comforted - and my arm, protective, _possessive_ , around his chest, I could not help but be honest. Anxious, shaking, I whispered my truth against his skin. A truth I had never been able to say aloud, a truth I had only ever committed to the pages of a journal meant to be hidden away, meant to stay withered and warped by salt, sea, and time. 

But I whispered my truth, despite it all. 

“I love you, Gus.” 

Gus froze in my arms. 

My eyes widened as the realize of what I had just said hit me. 

What on _earth_ was I thinking? 

I scrambled to recover, feeling the weight of my error immediately. 

“I… I mean that I-” But I could not make an excuse come out of my mouth. I was lost, tongue-tied, locked into the words that I had spoken.

This was it; it was over. 

I knew that it would be. This truth was _never_ meant for Gus’s ears. It had only ever been for me. My honest, my secret, kept locked away inside my breast until I rotted away from the weight of it. It was never meant for him; it should have stayed that way. 

But it didn’t, and here we are. 

I am a fool, I determined. Unloading my confession upon him at his most vulnerable, like adding bricks to an overburdened sack. 

I am no friend of his. A _friend_ would not have done this.

I prepared to extricate myself from Gus, my body already beginning to recede away from him. My arm was ready to withdraw from his grip, but Gus suddenly would not let me go. He would not let me leave. His hand clutched my own: firm and secure, unwilling, perhaps even unable, to let go, even as I attempted to scoot away and escape my atrocious blunder. 

But Gus clung to me. Tugged on my arm. Dragged me back to him as though the small space that existed between us for that brief second was too much to bear. As soon as he had pulled me back in close, Gus had scooted back further, pressing his back once again into my chest. Firm. Sure. _Secure._

I could not understand. He couldn’t possibly want _this_ . He couldn’t _not_ be disgusted by the words I had spoken. He was supposed to hate them. To hate me. That was the… the _proper_ thing to do. To hate it. But he didn’t. 

Instead, as soon as he had pulled me close again, Gus craned his head to look over his shoulder, and searched for me. I found his gaze but realized instantly that I could not read his eyes. Those bright cerulean eyes, they stared at me in wonder, in empty confusion, as if searching for something; god only knows what. Searching, perhaps, for an answer I could not give him. 

I tried to think. To rationalize. Because that is what the brain is meant to do. I am a physicist. I deal with the particulars of natural behaviors and motion. So why couldn’t I understand this moment? I could barely even _think_. 

Gus released my hand then, a sudden loss. But he quickly had moved his right arm back and grappled at the back of my neck. Without question, he pulled me to him as he craned his head back. He guided and pulled until I gave way, willing to follow anywhere he might lead me. I thought, briefly, of our first meeting, how ready I was to obey and follow him. But this was nothing like that moment. He was urging me, and _pleading_ , begging for contact. And I could not stop myself from giving it to him. 

He caught my mouth in an open, urgent kiss. 

I sucked in a desperate gulp of air, a hiss through my nose; the oxygen had left my lungs. My nostrils strained to find support for me, but I was unable to breathe. Gus pursed his lips against my own, and I ached to respond but could not find any sort of logical, purposeful movement lingering in my body. I was soft putty, molded only by his direction. And so I lay there and allowed myself a serene moment, while Gus, _my Gus_ , kissed me. 

And kiss me he did - closed-mouthed, pure, intentional - until he finally broke away. He pulled back, putting only a fraction of an inch between our mouths, and I missed him _immediately_. I tilted forward then, frantic in my need to follow, to find him once again, to recover the touch I had lost that fateful day he had been dragged beneath the waves. The day he had been stolen from me. 

Gus met me in kind. He angled his head further and met my mouth, his breath stuttering against my face as he found me. 

“Jack,” he whimpered into my mouth. His lips brushed against my own with the painful and desperate enunciation of my name. I wanted to hear him say it again. And again. And again. I wanted him to say my name with need, and want, and urgent desire. 

I wanted him to whisper my name like a dying man might whisper his prayers. 

Perhaps that it what it was: a dead man's prayer. My name a cry on his lips for another chance. A desperate call for all the time that had been lost. For all the moments we had missed. 

I didn’t know. 

I couldn’t have known… 

But none of that mattered. It still doesn't matter. All that mattered was that he was there, and searching for me, desperate to find me in all the ways I had craved to find him. 

With a soft groan, I tilted forward and fully claimed his mouth again. 

Gus did not stay with his back against my chest for long. Instead, he rolled over, flat onto his back, but kept his body still curved into mine, and angled his head upwards so he could kiss me more deeply. My lips were devoured by him, my mouth possessed; I was claimed in a way that I had never been before. 

My life here in Jamaica is small. Humble. But Gus’s touch, his kiss, made it feel 20 times larger.

As Gus turned more towards me, his hands grappled at my face, my neck, my collar, my nape. Hurried in their motions, they seemed frantic to touch whatever part of me he could. Before I knew it, I found myself pressed chest to chest with him, my mouth suddenly opening against his, welcoming the warmth of him before I even understood what it was. 

“Jack…” Gus whimpered again just before his tongue darted forward against my own. 

“I’m here,” I crooned back. Because what else could I say? _I love you_ was already on the table. 

I pulled away so I could shift again, and moved my body so that I was angled above him. Without a word, Gus’s legs moved and opened, creating an open space beneath my thin blankets for me to settle into. I obeyed and followed his unspoken request, slotting myself between his hips, bracing my elbows on either side of his head. 

I stared down at him and my fingers caressed his disheveled, golden locks. Was this happening? Was it even real? I had no idea. But I couldn’t bring myself to honestly question it. Looking down at Gus’s soft expression, filled with affection and want and something else I could not name, I had to believe that this was real. For my own sanity. 

I dragged one hand along the side of his face so I could grip his jaw. He tilted into my touch. 

His eyes gazed up at me, so wide, so open and honest.

“I love you, Jack.” 

My breath escaped my chest, sucked out of me with the gravity of his words. 

Gus loved me. 

I told him that I loved him, and he said it back to me. 

Gus was here. Gus had begged for me to stay with him. Gus had kissed me. 

And Gus loved me. 

I clenched my eyes shut with a pained groan and pressed down into him. I swallowed his mouth, angling his head to the side so I could kiss him more fully. My desire was full between my legs, painful and yearning, and if I focused, I could feel that Gus desired me as well. But I did not press the limits of my want. Instead, I simply kissed him, and whimpered into his mouth; I swallowed each sound he made. 

I drank every noise. I devoured each time his voice would hum his affections. I took that sound inside me and held those feelings in my chest. I would hold them there forever, Gus’s love too big for my body, but still housed miraculously within my straining ribs. 

I broke away from his lips only to press mine to his cheek, nuzzling the scruff along his jawline. I kissed and mouthed at the elegant curve of his perfect throat. I mumbled his name over and over again, my mantra, my prayer. The only thing I would ever, will ever, pray to. Gus _._ Gus _. Gus._

And he moaned for me, wrapped his arms around my body, caged me with his legs, pressed his hands into my back to hold me in place. Like he never wanted me to go. 

I would never go. Not so long as he would have me. 

I paused then, breathing warm, moist pants against the skin of his throat. I swallowed the tightness in my throat, forced it down, thick and heavy, so I could speak. 

“Tell me again that you’ll stay…” 

Gus nodded then and angled his head so his temple pressed against mine.

“I’ll stay. By god, Jack, I will stay.” 

I believe him. 

I love him. 

**::**

**_1st, December. Morning._ **

I don’t know what this means for us. I don’t know what any of this means for myself and Gus in the long term. But he is still here. Gus is still alive.

He is asleep next to me in my bed, his hand draped atop my lap, even as I write. It is difficult to transcribe this and not disturb him, but I will make do, because I cannot bear to leave this bed until he wakes. It has been two days since my confession. Two days since Gus’s own. And he has stayed. I like to watch him as he sleeps, listen to his breathing next to me, a reminder that he is alive. That he is still here with me. He has not had another nightmare, though I am sure more will come eventually.

Tomorrow, Gus and I have agreed that I should send word to his family. I will send word to Algie, as well. I do not know how I will explain this miracle. But I suppose it doesn’t matter. Because they will come and visit, and his mother and father will cry at the sight of their son, Algie will be beside himself to see his friend again. Gus may cry, as well. They will ask how; I will tell them I don't know. But I will tell them of how Gus crawled to me straight out of the sea and fell into my waiting arms. He has returned to us.

How unbelievable and amazing that is.

Gus and I cannot tell them of the nature of our relationship, of course. An unfortunate reality that I have tried not to let twist me up. But Gus loves me, and I love him, and that is for us and us alone. 

I suppose there is always the chance that the moment Gus sees his family again, he will want to return with them. To go back to England, to live his life in his rightful home. And in truth, if he wants to leave, I will let him go. It would be enough to know he is alive and well, though I would miss him with agonizing ferocity each day he was gone. It would kill me, but I would let him go.

But I believe him when he tells me he wants to stay here with me. I believe him when he wanders my gardens and tells me how beautiful this home is, when he tells me that he wants this to be his home as well.

Whatever excuse he needs to _not_ return home with his family, I will happily support it. 

My dearest friend, he is alive again. 

He loves me. 

And that is enough for me. 

**::**  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Christina: "it would be great if Gus lived"
> 
> Me, already sobbing: "it sure fuckin' would be"


End file.
